


oh, wouldn't it be nice?

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [17]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Big Dick Richie Tozier, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kissing, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Making Out, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Praise Kink, Sexual Content, Sub Top Richie Tozier, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 10:07:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: “Richie,” he calls out, but he doesn’t hear footsteps.“Richie!”This time, there’s running footsteps, and then Richie’s sliding into the room, wiping his face and hands off on a dishtowel. “What, what’s wrong?”Eddie holds the obituary up wordlessly, and Richie’s whole face drains of color. “Wh— Where did you—”“What thefuckis this?” Eddie demands.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 50
Kudos: 639





	oh, wouldn't it be nice?

**Author's Note:**

> remember to check for the tags for warnings!!
> 
> HUG RICHIE COUNCIL FOR THE ARTS
> 
> also the documents mentioned are real and the actual props used in the movies (to be super vague about it) and there are links to images of them in the notes at the end if you want to see them yourself!!
> 
> Title taken from ["Wouldn’t It Be Nice"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3y44BJgkdZs) by The Beach Boys.

Richie has a packrat sort of habit, Eddie’s noticed. He holds onto things just in case he might need them someday in the future, and then forgets about them, and then nothing ever gets thrown out. Eddie’s realized this more and more the longer he’s lived with Richie, that he just hoards things and then they all slip his mind.

He’s used to it by now, too, though. Boxes of odds and ends stuffed under the bed because Richie doesn’t know what to do with the things inside, but doesn’t feel he should get rid of them. Bags with old clothes in the back of the closet because he’s not sure he should get rid of any of it. Eddie’s not a doctor, so he hesitates to psychoanalyze, but he’s Eddie, so he does anyways, ildly, when he cleans out spaces like these.

Richie hoards a lot of little things and has only a few items he actually seems to hold as valuable. It’s always been that way, since they were kids. Eddie sees it as the Great Depression of Richie’s mental and emotional well-being: he went without for so long, he hoards what he has, just in case. Trauma’s a bitch, which Eddie knows better than anyone. It fucks with your brain.

_ Enough has fucked with Richie’s brain,  _ Eddie decides, digging two more once-Amazon boxes of Richie’s odds and ends out from under the bed in their guest room.  _ He doesn’t fucking need this shit, too. _

“Do you want to keep anything from under the bed in here?” Eddie calls. He hears jogging footsteps, and then Richie sticks his head in, dusted with flour and streaks of egg yolk.

“From where?” Richie asks, and Eddie points to the boxes. “Nah, I don’t think so. A bunch of that’s shit from Derry, actually, I think.”

“Oh.” Eddie looks down at the boxes, wrinkles his nose subconsciously. “Which time?”

“Second time,” Richie says. “When Mike called us back. Just shit from the trip, I don’t know. Probably a bunch of airplane napkins and stuff, you can just get rid of it.”

“Alright, if you’re sure,” Eddie says, popping open one of the boxes and peering inside.

Richie blows him a kiss. “Sure, I’m sure. Come and help me with the cake soon though, alright?”

“Yeah, sure, gimme a few minutes,” Eddie says. Richie waves and leaves him behind, and Eddie keeps rooting through the box. Richie was right, it is a bunch of odds and ends from his trip to Derry and back to Los Angeles after. There’s another airline ticket for Los Angeles to New York City, and another from New York City to Bangor again. Eddie sets them aside and keeps going, past torn movie stubs and doodles scribbled on napkins. He’s got a few jokes on ripped pieces of paper here and there, and sometimes Eddie even remembers the inspiration behind them, and they make him laugh.

Then, at the bottom of the box, he thinks he can see Richie’s face.

Frowning, he shoves the stuff on top of the picture aside and tugs the thing out. It’s a memorial card, he realizes with a jolt, with Richie’s smiling headshot on the front. It says  _ In Loving Memory of Richard Tozier  _ on it, which makes Eddie feel fucking sick to his stomach, and underneath Richie’s name it says  _ 1976 — 2016,  _ which was years ago. He frowns, brow furrowing, and turns the card over.

There’s a drawing of Pennywise at the bottom of the card, and Eddie’s stomach drops. The text on the back of the card starts with  **OBITUARY** , making Eddie’s skin just  _ crawl,  _ goosebumps all over as his blood itches through his veins. He’s in a cold sweat, eyes skimming over  _ RICHARD TOZIER, 1976 — 2016  _ again before he actually starts reading the obituary. His stomach turns just reading the first sentence, and he puts it down, breathing out hard.

“Richie,” he calls out, but he doesn’t hear footsteps.  _ “Richie!” _

This time, there’s running footsteps, and then Richie’s sliding into the room, wiping his face and hands off on a dishtowel. “What, what’s wrong?”

Eddie holds the obituary up wordlessly, and Richie’s whole face drains of color. “Wh— Where did you—”

“What the  _ fuck  _ is this?” Eddie demands. He wants his voice to sound less choked than it does, but he’s past the point of no return on several different emotions already, and they’re strangling him. “Where did you get this?”

“A dead guy handed it to me on the town common back in Derry,” Richie tells him. He comes over and makes to grab it from Eddie’s hand, but Eddie jerks it out of his reach. “Hey, c’mon, Eds—”

“Pennywise did this, then,” Eddie says, more statement than question. Richie nods anyways. “Why the fuck did you keep this, Richie?”

“I—” Richie says, then stops. Even his lips are pale, and he looks over his shoulder. “Look, I didn’t even remember I kept it. I forgot all about it, Eddie, you know me.”

“But why did you keep it in the  _ first place,”  _ Eddie demands.

Richie reaches for the memorial card again, and this time, Eddie lets him take it. He reads it over again, and he smiles, but it’s not funny. It’s not  _ fucking  _ funny.

“What’s so fucking funny, dickwad?” Eddie snaps. Richie shakes his head.

“It’s not funny,” Richie says. “I just— Shit. I was in a really bad place when I went back to Derry.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, and his reaction is so deflated that Eddie sort of deflates, too, the wind sliding out of his sails. He hesitates, then takes the spot next to Richie. He’s still looking down at the memorial card, so Eddie does, too.

“Do you believe all this stuff?” Eddie asks. His stomach twists when Richie doesn’t answer immediately.  _ “Richie.” _

“Not all of it,” Richie tells him. “I used to. Believe all of it, I mean. Some of it’s gotten better lately.” He runs his thumb over the trim on the edge of the card.

Under Richie’s name, there are four paragraphs, each shorter than the last. After a beat of hesitation, Eddie starts to read, “‘A native of Derry, Maine, Richard Tozier suffered through a troubled childhood that was marred by self-doubt and indecision.’”

“Eddie,” Richie whispers. “C’mon, Eds, we don’t have to read it.”

“I’m going to tell you why every fucking word of this thing is bullshit, and you are going to listen to me,” Eddie snaps, and Richie nods, jaw slamming shut. “Hey. I didn’t— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. We don’t have to—”

“No, I— It’s fine,” Richie says. “It’s a good exposure.”

“I don’t think—”

“I want to do it, Eddie,” Richie cuts him off, so Eddie nods and looks back down.

“You might’ve suffered through a troubled childhood,” Eddie says, “marred by self-doubt and indecision, but that’s over now. You survived.” Richie nods, doesn’t speak. Eddie continues, reads off the card, “‘His countless insecurities led him to ridicule the few friends he had—’ Alright, I’m gonna stop there, because you did not  _ ridicule  _ us, and if you were insecure, I hope you’re not now, because you’ve always been my favorite person.”

“Eddie,” Richie says, broken, but doesn’t continue.

“‘—An action that would come to haunt him for the remainder of his meaningless life,’” Eddie continues to read. “First of all, your life is not meaningless. Not for a fucking  _ second  _ has your life not had meaning, and second of all, you did not  _ ridicule  _ us so badly that you need to be haunted by it, Richie, Jesus Christ. You never did  _ anything  _ that bothered me that bad,  _ anything.” _

“But with Bill—” Richie says, and Eddie glares up at him.

“Fuck what happened with Bill,” Eddie says.

“You almost died.”

“I know,” Eddie says, even though they never really talk that much about what happened that day. He looks back down at the card. “‘Richie was an awkward-looking child—’ No, you were  _ not—” _

“I  _ so  _ was,” Richie half-laughs, eyes wet. Eddie reaches out and takes his hand.

“Every kid looks awkward at some points,” Eddie allows, “but you were also the subject of nearly all my wet dreams and sexual fantasies until we forget each other, so don’t worry, you were plenty attractive.”

Richie huffs a real laugh, wiping at his face. “Fuck, Eddie, couldn’t’ve told me that during a sexier activity?”

“I don’t live to please you,” Eddie says, before reading off the card, “‘—and his parents regarded him with both shame and disappointment.’” Eddie exhales, slowly, then says, “Richie, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if your parents were alive, I would fucking kill them myself.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Say it wasn’t that bad,” Eddie tells him, “and see what happens.”

Richie doesn’t say anything, for a moment. Then, he says, “Compared to what you—”

“I’m not above shouting over you,” Eddie shouts over him, and Richie buries his face in his hands. “If your parents ever regarded you with shame or disappointment, it’s because you aren’t anything fucking like them. They were horrible people, Richie.”

“Regarding me with shame and disappointment would’ve required them regarding me,” Richie says into his palms. He sniffles and rubs at his face.

“‘Their contempt for him,’” Eddie continues, “‘only intensified during Richie’s adolescence, when his repulsive inclinations toward homosexuality and deviance emerged.’ Richie.”

Richie shakes his head, opens his mouth, and doesn’t speak. After a moment, he lets out a sob, then takes off his glasses, covering his eyes. Eddie sets the card aside and pulls Richie’s hands away from his face.

“That’s about you,” Richie confesses. “It’s about you. I— It was always about you, Eddie, I’m  _ sorry—” _

“Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Eddie says. “There is  _ nothing  _ to be sorry for, do you hear me, Rich? I just told you I used to have fucking wet dreams about you when I was a kid, for fuck’s sake. I don’t think you fucking lusting after me like any other horny teenager would do is repulsive or deviant or fucking whatever.”

“I shouldn’t’ve—” Richie says, then breaks off again, turning his face back into his palm. Eddie pulls him in, lets Richie hide his face in his neck and cry until he can breathe again, drying his face off on his sleeve while Eddie rubs his back.

“Your parents,” Eddie says, and even he can tell how clenched he sounds, but he continues, “are— were— Your parents are—”

“It’s okay,” Richie says, when Eddie’s hands start shaking. He pulls away, shutting his eyes and breathing deeply. “I know, Eds. It’s fine.”

“It’s  _ not  _ fine,” Eddie spits. He gathers himself, then says, “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” he says again, but Eddie still feels shame coil hot in his lungs. “Keep going.”

“Richie, we don’t—”

“I want to finish it,” Richie interrupts. “Please, keep going, Eddie?”

Eddie can’t say no to that. He picks up the card again and starts in on the second paragraph: “‘He began performing in the late 1990s, and went on to achieve an unimaginative and forgettable career in stand-up comedy.’ Richie, you’re the fifth host of  _ Late Night.  _ You’re writing all your own shit and you’re, like, people’s favorite fucking comedian. You’re nominated for a bunch of Emmys next year, Rich, this is  _ insane,  _ you’re amazing.”

Richie nods, doesn’t speak. Eddie pulls him in with a hand on the back of his neck and kisses him hard on the temple. Richie’s eyes close.

“‘Unable to escape his anxieties,’” Eddie continues, still holding Richie close, “‘and incapable of sustaining any real human connection, he was eventually abandoned by his remaining friends, who never really knew him in the first place.’ If this is about the people you met after you left Derry, then fuck them, they’re not your real friends and I have made my feelings on those fuckheads  _ extremely  _ fucking clear. If that means the Losers, then it’s not your fault, it’s  _ nobody’s  _ fault, fucking— It made us forget, and it’s not because you’re forgettable, or anxious, or disconnected. It’s because It wanted us apart.”

“Okay,” Richie says quietly. They’re almost done, so Eddie doesn’t push the matter, turning back, instead, to the card.

“‘In the end,’” he reads, “‘his… his pathetic indecision in life and disgusting…’ Richie.”

“Please,” Richie says, “finish it.”

“‘His pathetic indecision in life and disgusting sexual urges left him alone,’” Eddie tries again, stomach turning, “‘without— without any reason to live, and now everyone knows his dirty secret. His death—’ Oh, God,” Eddie says, and gags.

“Eds—”

“No, no, I’m okay, hold on,  _ fuck,”  _ Eddie says, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, fuck, okay. ‘His death is the punchline to the only funny joke he ever made: His life.’” He swallows, then reads the very last line: “‘He is survived by nobody, and will not be missed.’”

Below that is the picture of Pennywise. The clock on their bedside table ticks. It’s dark outside, and the girls are all already asleep, but time seems to stretch in this moment, even though there’s the unmistakable sound of it passing ringing in his ears.

“None of that’s true,” Eddie finally says, because he has to say  _ something,  _ even if it’s the most obvious shit he can think of. It’s the loudest thought banging around his brain in the moment. “Richie,  _ none  _ of that is true. You are  _ never  _ alone. You are— Fuck, you never leave me alone— That’s not the right thing to say. I like that we’re together all the time. I spent enough time apart from you, I’m good on that, I don’t need that again.”

Richie buries his face in his hands again, hunched over, elbows on his knees. His shoulders shake. Eddie can’t see his face, since his hair’s hanging in the way, but he puts his arm around Richie’s shoulders and buries his face in his back anyways.

“You have  _ every  _ reason to live,” Eddie says quietly, and Richie sobs again. “Nobody is upset with you for being gay.  _ Nobody.  _ You’re not dirty. You are  _ not  _ dirty and you don’t deserve to die and you are  _ not alone,  _ Richie, do you hear me? If you died, I— I don’t know what I’d do, Richie, I’d— It goes beyond missing you, I— I can’t lose you, I  _ can’t.”  _ Eddie takes Richie’s face in his hands, pulls it up so they can make eye contact. Richie’s eyes are all glassy and red, but he lets Eddie look at him. “You are not alone. Got it?”

“Crystal clear, Captain,” Richie murmurs, still half-smiling through the fucking tears, and Eddie loves him so much his heart could fucking explode from it. “For what it’s worth, I mean, I know that  _ now.  _ You didn’t strike me as the type to settle for anything less than you wanted after you left Myra.”

“Richie, when I found out you were single, I called Myra from the fucking bathroom to get a divorce,” Eddie reminds him. “I didn’t even know for sure if you were gay or not. I just remembered who you were and how I’d felt about you and I— I knew I couldn’t keep being married to her after remembering everything. I couldn’t.”

Richie pushes forward, seeking warmth and hands and touch, all of which Eddie is more than happy to give to him. He presses their foreheads together, one hand on the back of Richie’s neck, the other tangling with his fingers.

“It has  _ always  _ been you, Richie, and I want you to know that,” Eddie tells him. “No matter what you thought, or believed, or what Pennywise said, or— honestly, fuck, even if you believe any of this  _ now.  _ You  _ never  _ got what you deserved. You always got the shitty fucking end of the stick, and it’s okay to acknowledge that, because Jesus fucking  _ Christ,  _ Richie, your parents were horrible and we all lost each other and, fuck, the people you knew after us— Richie, I’m  _ sorry,  _ I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I— If I could go back, and be there with you, for those twenty years, Richie, I  _ would.” _

Richie nods, but he can’t answer, face red as he shuts his eyes and tears slip down again. Eddie reels him in, wraps him up in his arms and tells him, “You’re not alone,” on a loop, over and over, while Richie cries.

By the time he calms down, the clock has ticked past nine o’clock. Richie sniffles, rubbing at his face with his sleeve, and makes to get up, but Eddie pushes him back against the bed.

“Nothing was in the stove, right?” Eddie asks.

“No,” Richie tells him.

“Then it doesn’t need to be dealt with right now,” Eddie tells him. “I’ll clean it up later, or I’ll help you finish. Don’t worry about that right now.”

Richie nods, and lets Eddie push him until his back’s against the pillows in a pile pressed to the headboard, and Eddie slides under his arm.

“I don’t believe all of that anymore,” Richie tells him again. Eddie’s not sure if he believes it, but he doesn’t interrupt, for once. “I— I don’t know. I had a hard time growing up, but you know that, you saw my— letter, and what my dad did to me, I—” Richie shakes his head. Eddie twines their fingers together. “It was rough, after, but I— I don’t believe I don’t have any reason to live. Not anymore. After the second time I tried, I just… I don’t know. I have so much to live for, now. The girls.” He looks down at Eddie, says, “You,” so softly that Eddie’s head spins.

“I love you,” Eddie tells him urgently.  _ “You,  _ Richie Kaspbrak, not the fucked-up warped image of you that that fucking card is talking about. That man’s not real, he’s made-up out of your fears.”

“When we went to Neibolt,” Richie says, and it’s an unexpected non sequitur, but Richie barrels on, “I found a— a flyer. A missing poster, actually. For me. It said I hadn’t been seen since July. The poster was all crinkled and faded, too, like— like sun-faded, you know? Like it’d been out for a while, and I just… never came home.” Richie huffs a laugh. Eddie tips his face back up, holds it between his hands. He looked hard into the muddy mess of Richie’s brown-blue eyes before he kissed him.

“You’re not missing,” Eddie says. “You’ll never go missing, because I’ll always find you.”

Richie shuts his eyes again. Eddie kisses him.

“I’ll always find you,” he repeats. “I love you, Richie. I  _ love  _ you. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

Richie sobs, cups Eddie’s face in his own big hands and kisses him back himself, tilting his head to get a better angle. Eddie shifts, breaks the kiss to swing himself up and over onto Richie’s lap.

“Is this okay?” Eddie asks, and Richie nods vigorously. Eddie holds tight to the back of Richie’s neck to kiss him again, rolling his hips in a long, slow slide over the line of Richie’s half-hard cock through his pajama pants. Richie kisses him back with equal force, his hands going to Eddie’s waistband between them.

“Fuck,” Richie murmurs. Eddie pulls his hand away, breaks their kiss.

“Let me take care of you,” Eddie says, and slips down Richie’s body to kiss at his exposed collarbone under his worn t-shirt. Richie shivers, so Eddie slides his hands up under the shirt, too, from the hem up. “Is this okay?”

“Fuck, Eddie,  _ yes,  _ it’s all okay,” Richie tells him. Eddie noses along Richie’s shoulder, then pushes his hands up to remove the shirt from Richie’s arms in one fluid movement. He tosses the shirt aside and runs his hands over the exposed skin. They’ve done this hundreds of times, maybe even thousands at this point, and it still never gets old, getting to touch Richie like this and be touched by him just like this in return. It’s a special kind of thrilling that sparks electric fevers through Eddie’s bones. He sometimes feels like he’d die without the heat.

“You’re amazing,” Eddie breathes into Richie’s skin. He bites at the skin over his heart, and Richie whimpers. “Look at you. Who could say anything bad about you?”

“I—” Richie starts to say, then Eddie kisses down his chest, and he cuts off with a sharp, stifled inhale.

“I can’t imagine anyone leaving you alone,” Eddie says. It almost feels strange, like saying dirty things to Richie had felt, at first. Like that, though, he finds himself warming up, because Richie’s face is flushed and his eyes are still glassy, but his heart is pounding and his dick is fully hard now against Eddie’s ass and the back of his thigh, and Eddie wonders if he could get him off just like this. He’s earned it, he thinks, and tries to push the memorial card out of his mind as he takes Richie’s soft waist in his hands. “I never want to leave you alone. Fuck, sometimes, Richie— Sometimes we’ll be out with our friends or something and I look at you, and all I can think about is getting your huge fucking cock in me, or getting my fucking mouth on you, or telling you about the stupid fucking joke I overheard on the bus. You are— the fucking  _ only person  _ I have  _ ever  _ given this much of a shit about.  _ Ever.” _

“You’re such a flatterer,” Richie gasps, as Eddie rolls his hips again, leaning up to kiss Richie quiet.

“You deserve to be flattered,” Eddie says, because he  _ does,  _ and nobody’s ever fucking  _ told him that.  _ Not his parents, not his fucking other boyfriends, none of the fake  _ fucking  _ friends he made after he left Derry,  _ none of them.  _ Eddie gets a little thrill out of being the first at the same time he’s  _ enraged  _ that this happened to Richie for so,  _ so  _ long. “You deserve everything, Richie.”

“Eds, come on,” Richie whines, and Eddie slides back down, pulling Richie’s pajama pants and his boxer briefs down with him as he goes. He shucks them all the way off and tosses them the way of the shirt, then leans up and over Richie’s exposed cock, bracing himself with a hand on each of Richie’s thighs. He squeezes the muscle there, then leans in, dragging his tongue over the inside of Richie’s thigh. Richie whimpers again, full-body twitching, so Eddie does it again.

“Look at you,” Eddie repeats. Richie buries his hands in Eddie’s hair, holds onto the curls tightly. His hair’s the longest it’s ever been — which still isn’t even as long as Bill’s hair, really, but it’s long for  _ him —  _ and that just means Richie has been able to hold him tighter and longer and give him better angles like this. Eddie kind of loves that.

He also loves how much Richie loves it, so he pushes his head into his hands for a moment before leaning back in to lick closer to the juncture of his hips and his legs, the inner crease of skin, and Richie swallows audibly.

“Fuck, Eddie, don’t go slow on my account, I’m not made of glass,” Richie tells him breathlessly. “I can’t promise I won’t cry, but that’s true anytime we do this, to be fair.”

“This isn’t because I think you’re made of glass,” Eddie tells the inside of Richie’s thigh. “This is because I think you’re important and— and  _ good, _ and you deserve to be fucking treated like you are, for once in your life.”

Richie’s quiet, quiet enough that Eddie lifts his head.

“Is that okay?” Eddie asks. Richie nods jerkily.

“Yeah, I just—” Richie says, voice pitched a little too high, then covers his face. “Okay, I didn’t  _ actually  _ want to cry.”

“Richie,” Eddie says, alarmed, but Richie waves him off.

“I’m just being emotional,” Richie says. “And I’m incredibly horny and that’s not helping. Continue.”

“You’re sure—”

_ “Yes,”  _ Richie insists, “I’m incredibly sure, get back to whatever you were doing, it was actually phenomenal, just  _ phenomenal, _ ten out of ten, would bang again—”

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Eddie snarls, and they both know he doesn’t mean it, that he never  _ really  _ means it and especially not like this, when he wants to hear Richie running his mouth most of all. He ducks his head and takes Richie’s hips in his hands, holds him in place so he can lightly bite at the inside of his thigh again. Richie’s dick fucking  _ throbs,  _ right near his face, so he turns into it, licks a hot line up his giant fucking dick with the flat of his tongue, and Richie full-body  _ shivers  _ under him.

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie says—  _ whines,  _ really, and Eddie pants against his cock, trying to steady himself for a moment. He’s hard, too, an absolute goddamn  _ aching  _ line in his pajama shorts, so he gets in between Richie’s legs and presses his hips to the mattress for some semblance of friction, for relief.

“There,” Eddie murmurs, then licks up Richie’s dick again. Richie’s hands tangle up in his hair once more, and Eddie can’t deny him what he wants. Not today, when the memorial card is still burnt into the backs of Eddie’s eyelids.

He takes Richie’s dick fully in his mouth, then pulls away. Richie twitches under him again, hands cupping his face; Eddie bites at Richie’s hip, kisses down his thigh again. He moves up, lets his hand wrap around Richie’s cock.

“How’s that?” Eddie asks, kissing Richie’s neck. Richie tips his head back, one arm still wrapped around Eddie where he’s leaning up into Richie’s chest. He shivers, so Eddie sets to work bruising Richie’s throat the way he jokes about hating and secretly fucking  _ loves.  _ Well, not-so-secretly, but Eddie’s different. Richie and Eddie have  _ always  _ been different when it comes to each other.

“Eddie, Eds,  _ fuck,”  _ Richie spits, as Eddie continues his hard, slow twists up on his dick, the measured, rhythmic biting and sucking of his throat. He reaches up with his other hand, tangles up in Richie’s hair and holds him there; Richie’s eyes drift closed again, and Eddie takes the opportunity to kiss him on the cheek.

“I love you,” Eddie tells him, and Richie fucking  _ moans.  _ “Richie, I  _ love you,  _ more than anything, more than  _ anything—” _

“Fuck, Eddie,” Richie gasps, and he’s coming in his grasp, so Eddie leans up to kiss him through it. His own cock fucking  _ aches,  _ throbbing in time against Richie’s leg with the way he’s gasping, Eddie’s heart pounding through every inch of his body. Richie turns them over, slides down Eddie’s body and takes him in his mouth before Eddie can say fucking shit about it, and it’s only a minute before Eddie’s gone, too, coming down Richie’s throat.

“This was supposed to be for  _ you,”  _ Eddie gasps breathlessly, as Richie wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand and climbs back up the bed to curl up in Eddie’s hold.

“Trust me, that  _ was  _ for me,” Richie says, a little hoarse. Eddie kisses him, even though it’s fucking gross, because it’s his cum that’s  _ making  _ Richie’s mouth fucking gross, so he’s earned it. “Shower or finish the cake first?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Shower first, you animal,” Eddie says heatedly, and Richie grins at him. “Are— Rich, are you okay, though?”

Richie nods, sitting up and stretching. He pops his shoulders, then his elbows, before he twists to crack the long line of his spine. Eddie can only watch, mouth dry.

“I’m fine,” Richie says, after he’s yawned. He climbs out of bed and holds out a hand. “C’mon, my mouth tastes like jizz and it’s incredibly unbecoming.”

“And whose fault is that?” Eddie asks. Richie laughs, grinning down at him, and it makes Eddie’s heart leap.

“Fucking  _ yours,  _ Eduardo, you’re the one who came in my mouth,” Richie says. “I don’t know who told you this, but I’m not actually a garbage disposal—”

“Oh, shut up,” Eddie admonishes, kissing him again despite his disgusting mouth. He lets Richie haul him into the shower, and Richie lets him scrub them both down to his heart’s content. He brushes his teeth in the shower, ignores Eddie’s commentary about it when he spits down the drain, but Eddie doesn’t have much to say on it when Richie kisses him pressed up against the shower wall with mint still heavy in his mouth.

“This is the longest we’ve ever gone uninterrupted with all three kids in the house,” Richie whispers, as Eddie’s toweling his hair dry and brushing it out for him. He starts twisting it in a braid for him once Richie sits on the closed toilet seat to bring his head closer to Eddie’s level.

“Don’t fucking jinx it or I’ll rip your hair out by the roots,” Eddie whispers back. Richie laughs into his hands to stifle the sound.

They creep around the house to keep quiet, now that they’re more self-aware, and Richie guides them back to the guest room. He starts pulling his pajamas back on, so Eddie follows suit, grateful he didn’t get any cum on his shorts so he doesn’t have to change and risk waking up Audrey or Nora in their bedroom.

“Come on,” Richie says, once he’s dressed. He’s got something clenched in his fist, but he leaves the room too quickly for Eddie to see what it is, so he follows silently. Richie goes to the kitchen, where his cake ingredients are still scattered all over the place like a bomb went off, but he ignores all the food and dishes spread across the counters to go fumbling for a drawer near the fridge.

“What’re you looking for?” Eddie asks, just as Richie emerges from his search with a lighter. He goes to the sink and uncurls his fist, holding up his memorial card.

“Let’s fucking burn it,” Richie says. “I never want to see that stupid fucking clown’s face again, and it’s not doing any fucking good sitting in our house taunting me. Let’s light this motherfucker up!”

“Richie,  _ shush,”  _ Eddie scolds, but he’s grinning. He goes to Richie’s side and holds the memorial card while Richie clicks the lighter to life, catching the bottom corner of the card and watching it go up in flames. He passes it over to Richie, and Richie just watches it curl under the flame before he drops it into the sink. It burns there, crumpling up into ash, twisting up like the black legs of a dead spider on its back before it collapses into ember. Richie runs the water, and Eddie stares as the whole mess goes right down the drain and stays there.

They’re both quiet for a moment. Then, Richie says, “Will you help me make my cake, Eds?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, even though it’s past nine now, maybe even close to ten, and he knows they’re both exhausted, but Patty’s baby shower is tomorrow and Richie insisted on making the cake for them. He grabs the closest bowl and says, “What do I do?”

Richie laughs at him, swats at him playfully with a dishtowel, insists he wear an apron even though all he’s got on is a tank top and his little pajama shorts. They spend most of the cake-making experiences pressed into each other, primarily Richie draped over Eddie like an oversized weighted blanket, dragging him around and into his body every time they’re within arm’s length of each other. For Eddie’s part, he goes, because Richie’s searching mouth and seeking hands and pounding heart mean they’re  _ alive. _

“I’ll never let you go missing,” Eddie says, as they’re standing in front of the oven, Richie’s chin hooked over the top of Eddie’s head, his arms draped down his shoulders and his hands hooked into the waistband of Eddie’s shorts under his apron. He ducks his head down when Eddie speaks, nuzzles into his throat. His hands press up, palms flat against Eddie’s bare stomach under his tank top.

“You better not,” Richie murmurs into his neck. “Nobody’s got a dick as big as mine, baby, you’d be  _ bereft  _ without me.”

“Can I send you back and get a new one without a voice box?” Eddie asks hopefully as Richie playfully nips at the thin skin under his ear. Richie sways them a little bit, side to side, humming in Eddie’s ear as if deep in thought.

“I think your warranty’s up, actually,” Richie says, “since it’s void if you break the seal, and you’ve  _ definitely  _ broken the seal on this model—”

_ “Richie—” _

_ “But,”  _ Richie continues, “since you’re such a valued customer, I’ll let you shut me up for free.”

“And how’ll you do that?” Eddie asks, and Richie tips Eddie’s face towards him with the barest press of soft fingertips against his cheek. He kisses him softly.

“Like that,” Richie says softly. “Or with your dick down my throat. Dealer’s choice, but you know I’m gagging for you twenty-four-seven, Kaspbrak.”

“Shut  _ up,”  _ Eddie insists.

“Look at that,” Richie murmurs, kissing along his cheek, up into his hairline. Eddie laughs, turning his face away, but Richie chases him, traps him in his arms and turns them around so they’re facing each other, Richie’s hands gathered at the small of Eddie’s back. Eddie reaches up, lays his palms flat against Richie’s chest. “Pretty,  _ pretty  _ Eddie Kaspbrak, flushing all pink thinking about his cock in my mouth.”

“You’re going to imbue the cake with bad energy,” Eddie says, grinning. Richie snorts, glancing sideways to the oven.

“Do you think it’s picking up on my raw sexual aura?” Richie asks. “Do you think they’ll cut into it and say, ‘Is it a blue for a boy? Is it a pink for a girl?’ but it’ll be red like your dick gets when I—”

“Okay, you ruined it,” Eddie cuts him off. “The second you started talking about my dick color being in a baby shower cake, you ruined everything. I hope you’re fucking happy. I’ll be divorced  _ twice  _ and I’m barely forty—”

“You’re pushing f—”

_ “Barely forty,”  _ Eddie insists, “and all because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.” Eddie sighs. “I’ll be miserable without you, but how else will you learn?”

Richie gathers him up, kisses him again and again, and Eddie lets him, falling in against him and trying to give as much  _ I love you, I love you, I love you  _ to Richie as he can through the open connection of their mouths.

“Your aura is buzzing,” Richie murmurs. “It’s all warm and golden. It’s just drifting right around me like— Not like smoke. Like clouds. It’s like I’m in the clouds.”

“Do you really see that?” Eddie asks, but he doesn’t get an answer, Richie’s mouth occupied again with his.

**Author's Note:**

> The [front of Richie's memorial card](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EJxAOBWX0AEFW8b?format=jpg&name=small), the [back of his memorial card](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EJxAObOWsAc9-n5?format=jpg&name=small), and his [missing poster](https://img.letgo.com/images/a6/d6/a1/de/a6d6a1def88282cd7eebbaa96e83f809.jpg?impolicy=img_600).
> 
> You can (and should!) talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon)!


End file.
